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Someone, somewhere,
once asked a question.
Cicadas sang loudly
and the air was warm and tiring. I was lying underneath the shadow of
a lone oak on a grassy field. Occasionally, a cool breeze of air would
whistle against my face, tingling against my hair. A ladybug was
sitting on top of my nose, it tickled.
This was my little
world. The mellow warmth of the air had seeped in my body from head
to toes. Each breath of air was wonderful. The sweet scent of leaves
lingering over the sun basked verdant field mellowed my senses like
the sweetest nectar.
Sleeping there,
basking in that little heaven; I opened my eyes, whispering: “Why
can't people stop for moments like these when they grow older?”
A white line cut
across the sky the moment that the last syllable of my question
remained, lingering in the air. A freezing cold shiver pushed across
my back, carried by a painful euphoria. I gasped. It felt like the
whole universe had answered to my beseech of my secret wish; that
this hidden world would not disappear when I'd become older.
- - -
Years passed,
seasons changed. I don't remember much of my early childhood. But
amidst the forgotten memories, ever since that day. That question and
that wish has protected me.
Stopping every once
in a while, here and there; finding the small miracles in the
ordinary life. Even during hard times, I could still catch a glimpse
of the sun with all the dark clouds.
Sometimes when I
would find myself watching over a magical scenery, wondering – I
whisper; asking a quiet question: “Was I the only one?” with
a childish innocence.
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